Citizens run for cover. The Defenders who haven’t contracted the disease yet stand their ground, shooting, shooting, shooting, but the infected aren’t fazed by gunshots to their torsos. It’s like they can’t feel pain. Blood soaks into their shirts, but they keep moving, attacking, killing.
It’s the bloodbath of bloodbaths.
An infected comes at me, eyes like white marbles, hair gray and thinning, skin like flakey dandruff. He leaps into the air toward me and I shoot at his head. His body slams into mine, knocking me down. The back of my head hits the pavement, and I blink to clear my vision while simultaneously rolling from beneath my limp attacker.
My vision hardly has time to clear, and I don’t have time to leap to my feet before another victim stumbles toward me. Someone stuck a knife into her throat. Her neck has been snapped, as evidenced by the odd angle of her head, and blood pours down her neck into her ripped shirt. She trips and falls to her knees, but that doesn’t slow her down. Milky eyes stare at me while she half-crawls, half drags herself toward me with blood-coated hands. The eerie grunts and groans she makes sends chills across my body. She grabs my foot. I scoot up against the wall, then quickly take aim with trembling hands and shoot her in the forehead.
Another victim leaps toward me at the sound of the gunshot, and I shoot him in the head. Then more come at me, one after the other. And I shoot while simultaneously stumbling to my feet. Already my Defenders have been cut down to less than half. The other half is dead, lying on the ground, limp, with no hope of ever experiencing the freedom of mind.
Great. Just perfect. Instead of freeing Ky, we’re killing her off. Thanks so much, Titus, for screwing your country over.
Shoddy jackal.
The victims finally begin thinning. But just when I think I’ll catch a break, another explosion shakes the ground and fills the air with smoke. I duck into an alleyway, covering my head from the falling debris. Then another rush of shouts and screams of Frankfort citizens fills the air. Coughing up the smoke, I force my eyes open and glance down the street. Through the clearing smoke, I first make out one—two—three silhouettes of the plagued. Then hundreds appear behind them. Stumbling and running and tripping over each other.
Half of Ky is infected, and they’re all coming here. What ever made me think we could actually win this thing? Where are you, Indy? We can’t hold out another thirty minutes. It’s one hundred men against one out here. They’re going to plow over the living and head straight for the capitol building. Everyone I know—everyone I’ve come to love—is going to be dead within the hour.
All hope leaves my bloodstream. There’s no way we’re going to win this. Even if the Indy Tribe did show up now, if the cure doesn’t work, humanity will go extinct within the week. I’m tempted to give up. I’m tempted to drop my gun and walk straight toward the oncoming mob—but I think of Ember instead. She would have fought. She would have exhausted herself fighting for Ky. Not in the beginning, maybe, but certainly in the end. Those last few weeks of Ember’s life were fire and courage and fearlessness, and she would have used her last breath defending Ky.
She did use her last breath defending Ky.
Oh shoddy rot. Fine. I leap into the alleyway, and reload. If I’m lucky, I won’t last much longer defending Ky. I’m ready to get off this forsaken planet. I peek around the corner of the oncoming mob and shoot-shoot-shoot.
Aurora was right. These things are nothing like zombies. Zombies are supposed to be brainless and slow and awkward. The infected are quick. They’re strong. They’re sharp, despite the milkiness in their eyes. They react strongly to the sounds of gunshots, so those of us shooting are their primary targets. Makes me wish more than anything that I had a silent Indy gun on me right about now.
If I’m right and this is something Titus and his father tinkered around with, does that mean this strain of the White Plague can spread to Patricians? The thought terrifies me. My throat closes. For the first time in my life, I’m mortified. What if I don't die? What if—what if I get infected instead? What if the rest of my days are spent in brainless agony?
I swallow down my fear, reload, refocus.
We fight through another wave of victims. By the time that wave has passed, I have only two Defenders left. I lean back, take another breather. That’s when I notice the JumboTron across the street blaring out news. Maybe that’s what’s attracting the infected. A reporter stands on the flat roof of a building, the camera zeroed in on her fake smile and bouncing curls.
Cherry.
She told me she was going to switch her career from that of a politician to a reporter. Typical Patrician, she got exactly what she wanted. And it looks like this crisis is what she needs to help her rise to the top. She always did want to be at the center of the world’s attention. Her eyes light with excitement, as though thousands of her people mauling each other is the most exciting news all year. I can’t hear what she’s saying above the noise, and I don’t care, because from a distance, I can hear more screams. Another wave of the infected is coming. And there are only a few of us left to defend the heart of Frankfort.
When the noise is close enough, I step out from behind the building and begin shooting. They’re running fast. So many of them. I quit trying to aim and just shoot, shoot, shoot, hoping the bullets find their heads, but it’s doing little to put a dent in their line.
This is utterly hopeless.
My gun runs out of ammunition; I toss it aside and pull a new one out of my belt. This wave is larger than the last. I wonder if it’ll ever end. When that gun runs out of ammunition, I drop it and grab my last gun and shoot at any moving white thing. But they’re advancing too fast, and I have to retreat.
I stumble back into my alleyway, exhausted and breathless and hopeless when something crashes into my back, knocking the remaining breath out of me and pinning me to the ground. My face scrapes the pavement. I hear a snarl, feel the weight of another person on top of me. Freezing hands wrap around my throat. I reach for my knife, yank it out, and stab the arm, but the attacker doesn’t let up. They have absolutely no sensory of pain.
Releasing the knife, I wrap my hands around my attacker’s wrists and slowly pry them off my neck. The skin is rough and scaly beneath my fingertips. I loosen the grip just enough to spin around and face my attacker head-on. Milky eyes stare blankly at me. Blood drips from both nostrils, settling onto his lips, a stark contrast to his pale skin. Coarse white hair spikes out in so many directions he almost looks like a zombified version of Albert Einstein.
He lunges toward my throat again, and my defenses kick in. I lift both fists up by my face and spread my arms, preventing him from choking me. Then I reach out and grip his wrists, pulling him to the ground, then quickly maneuver myself to hold him down. This infuriates him. He throws his head forward, smashing his forehead against mine, and stars explode behind my eyes. I’m helpless. Einstein’s cold finger wraps around my throat again. These infected aren’t brainless at all. They’re know where to strike, where the most vulnerable places are.
The antitoxin compelled them to kill.
I guess if Titus couldn’t be leader, he wanted the whole country to sink. Looks like he got his wish, as always.
The icy hand cuts off my windpipe. I try to pry it off. He’s too strong; his arm is steel. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. A faint ringing invades my ears. Darkness creeps at the edge of my vision. I’m going to die. Now.
Closing my eyes, I brace myself for the inevitable. I imagine what’s waiting for me in the afterlife. Ember’s smiling eyes. Her smile. Her intoxicating scent of wild country life. The way her eyes flashed when she was angry. The way she laughed when she was happy.
And
I
surrender.
God, take me.
I embrace the unknown as I imagine the afterlife. Laughter. Joy. No diseases. No rich/poor gap. Just utter perfection. A sense of relief comes over me. I see Ember standing in the garden, sunlight
splashing across her face. She’s anointed. Her always-smiling eyes meet mine as she welcomes me home.
I’m overcome with relief.
I’m coming for you, little apple picker.
My body is floating somewhere in space. All pain is forgotten. All thoughts.
Gone.
And then—I suck in a breath of fresh air. It’s pure and beautiful and fills my lungs with utter bliss.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Replenish bad air for good.
I’m in heaven.
My hearing slowly returns with an extremely loud chop-chop-chop invading my ears. I crack my eyelids open.
And this is where I’m certain that I’m dead.
Because glitter fills the air around me. It falls on my face and arms in a mist. I breathe in again and feel the bitter wetness on my tongue and throat. Einstein rolls off of me, no longer blocking my view of the sky, where dozens of giant black things are flying through the air. Angels? I didn’t exactly picture them to be so…bulky. I lower my eyes to the JumboTron.
And now I know I’m dead.
Because looking right at me, through the screen of the JumboTron are the always-smiling brown eyes of Ember Carter. I'm coming Flame-girl. And her perfect face blurs as I lose my vision.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
RAIN
I blink to get the mist out of my eyes. This shoddy glitter is messing with my vision. But the face remains the same, no matter how many times I blink. It’s Ember, welcoming me home. This isn’t exactly how I pictured the afterlife. It looks too much like reality. I feel like I got run over by a bus. My lungs ache as they expand. The mist tickles my nose, and I sneeze. Shoddy rot, I hate sneezing.
But if the afterlife is where Ember is…I’m there. I squint up at the JumboTron. Ember smiles at me. And I reach out, but I can’t quite reach her.
“Good afternoon, people of Ky,” she says, smiling so wide that her teeth are a stark contrast to her olive skin. That smile. God, I missed it. But, why is she speaking to all of Ky? Are we all being welcomed into the afterlife? Of course we are. I knew nobody was going to make it out alive.
“I am speaking on behalf of the Indy Tribe.”
Wait. No. That’s all wrong. I blink, trying to keep up with what she’s saying while attempting to put the pieces of the puzzle together.
“The mist you are inhaling is a cure to the White Plague,” she says. “You’ve all been infected by an updated strain of the disease, but thanks to the Indy Tribe, we have a cure to combat it. Your minds should be clearing up right about now, as should your vision.” Her smile fades. “Some of you might be experiencing some intense pain.”
I slowly become aware of the cries echoing through the streets, including my alleyway. I glance over to find Einstein writhing on the ground, gripping his injured arm to his chest as he rips the knife out. His hair is still coarse and white, but when he looks at me, some of the color has returned to his eyes. He’s human again.
Holy Crawford, the Indy Tribe actually had a cure. And it worked.
But wait. If Einstein is here, then that means…I’m not dead. Which means—
I look back at the screen where Ember is still talking. No. Can’t be. Ember died. Who’s this? It must be Aurora. But then why the shoulder-length hair tipped with red? Why the brown eyes? That’s not Aurora. Another twin maybe? Please, no. I can’t handle any more tricks right now.
I jerk upright, seeing, but still not completely believing that Ember is on the screen.
“Medical personnel will be tending your wounds,” Ember says from the JumboTron. “Allow them to do their work, as there is no hospital large enough to bed every citizen. The streets of Frankfort will have to do.” She winks. “At least the temperature stays a constant seventy-two degrees. That’s one good thing that comes out of snotty Patrician technology.”
I don’t know when I started grinning, but I can’t stop now. If there was any doubt in my mind that that was Ember, it’s gone now. She’s here. She’s alive. I don’t need to know how, I just need to get to her. Judging by the buildings surrounding her, she’s…just around the corner.
Hope swells in my chest, and I can feel it. The canyon in my chest crumbling back together, piece by piece, rock by rock. The chasm has been sewn closed, and instead of darkness, a river of joy flows into my soul, through my veins. Electricity strikes my spine, shooting into my mind and I’m on my feet. I stride around the corner, nearly bumping in to the camera man. I peek around from behind him, catch a glimpse of Ember in real life.
And. I. Can’t. Breathe.
She’s different, somehow. Same eyes. Same features. Same hair, though a bit longer than when I last saw her. There’s something inside, some energy, some courage and strength that wasn’t there before. Confidence. Her fathomless eyes exude confidence. Ember Carter knows exactly who she is and why she’s here, and she’s not about to let anyone dissuade her. Even Cherry stands in the shadows—fearless Cherry—she stands on the sidelines, arms crossed, clearly pissed that a common orchardist took her spotlight.
Oh, Ember. My fire in December.
I remember the way she talked into the cameras her first week in Frankfort as a Patrician. She was shy. Timid. Biting her lip, picking her nails. She avoided looking at the camera. But this Ember looks straight into the camera. She talks to all of Ky as though she were the leader, as though she came to rescue them, as though she loved the people of Ky the way a mother loves a son and don’t you dare mess with her children.
Her eyes lock with mine, and she stops speaking mid-sentence. Her eyes snap for a split second, then a grin spreads across her face. And I don’t breathe—don’t dare take a breath for fear of shattering the illusion.
She nods at the camera. “Cherry will take it from here.”
And I can’t wait another second. I stride forward as she walks toward me. I walk—jog—run until I reach her and I pull her into my arms and squeeze and breathe in the reality of her impossible presence.
“Rain,” she whispers. And that one word coming from her lips seals the chasm. All I can manage to whisper is her name, over and over and over again, like saying her name will keep her from disappearing again.
I pull away and search her eyes. I comb my fingers into her shoulder-length hair, study her features, rub the pad of my thumb across the rivers and valleys of her face. The person standing in front of me is Ember, but—“This can’t be possible.” I somehow manage to squeeze the words through the tightness in my throat. “You—you died.”
She swallows hard and shakes her head. “Not dead, Rain.”
I run my fingers down her neck, across the strange, ragged grooves that weren’t there before. Scars. Deep, deep scars where the tiger mauled her. Oh, God, the pain she must have endured. The flashback of her death crashes into my memory, and I wince. She covers my hand with her own, bringing me back to the reality of her presence. Her eyes are misted with tears, and she blinks, releasing a tear down her cheek. And that’s when I can’t control myself anymore. I crush her to my chest.
She looks like Ember.
She smells like Ember.
She feels like Ember.
This can’t be real.
“I thought—” My voice chokes off, and I swallow, try again. “We buried you.”
Slowly her arms wrap around my waist and I am in heaven.
“I’m fine,” she says, her voice thick.
I pull away and cup her cheeks. “Is it really you?”
“Yes. It’s really me, Rain.”
I laugh. I laugh and cry and thank God a hundred million times. “Never again, Ember Carter. You are seriously not allowed to go near a black tiger again. Do you understand me?”
She laughs, and another tear slips.
“I’m not kidding,” I say as I wipe away her tear with my thumb. “I can’t lose you again.” I tip her chin up, search her always-smiling eyes, and take in her pert nose, her perfect l
ips. Her smile fades, and her breath quickens. The look in her eyes transforms from joy to pure longing. She licks her lips. Her eyes slowly travel down the length of my face to my mouth, then her eyes flick back to mine, unsure.
And I can’t control myself.
I lean down and claim her lips. I hunger for her. I thirst for her. I need her. She wraps both hands around the back of my head, digs her fingers into my hair, and kisses me back. And I lose myself. I pick her up off the ground, swing her around, then set her down and hug her fiercely while trying hard not to crush her bones. I press my lips against her hair. I lean my forehead against hers. I drink her in while tears spill freely down my cheeks into her hair. And then somehow, without making the decision to do so, I’m kissing her again.
I don’t think I could get enough of Ember if I tried. I don't think I ever want to get enough of her. She’s too much. Too much fire for any one person to contain. Not an ember at all, but a raging flame, consuming and simultaneously warming. Energy and passion and rage and joy and so many intense emotions in one small body.
The gaping hole in my chest fills with the crackling embers of hope. My broken spirit is fixed. My shattered heart is once again whole. I feel like a broken, battered corpse that has been brought back to life. No way I’m letting this little apple picker leave my sight again.
Around us, the infected are slowly coming to. Medics race around in white suits, tending to the wounds of the infected and the citizens. I shut them out and focus on the impossible dream before me.
“Ember,” I whisper against her lips. “Oh, Ember. You have no idea…how hard it was to lose you.” I pull away and now the questions surface. Now I want to know how. Why. I study her through my tears and lift a brow.
“Answers, please,” I demand.
She laughs and looks away, her cheeks blooming scarlet. I lower my hands to her shoulders, wanting to give her freedom. Alternately never wanting to let her go again.
white dawn (Black Tiger Series Book 3) Page 29